


If the Good Die Young

by BarbwireRose



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV), Thor (2011)
Genre: AU, Angst, Community: norsekink, Crossover, Gen, hidden child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarbwireRose/pseuds/BarbwireRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*Revised on 1/29/12* It it well-known that Loki had more children than just the four 'monster' children and the two little boys. What if one of those 'hidden' children was a certain green-eyed gambler who not only inherited his father's knack for mischief, but also a latent form of Loki's magic? It would certainly explain a few things, such as Ezra's uncanny ability to avoid getting himself killed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was another answer to a prompt on the Thor kink meme, and since it also involved my second favorite fandom I couldn't resist the challenge. I did my best to make it easy for those who may not be familiar with one fandom or the other to still enjoy the story, because when you really think about it this concept is not as far fetched as you might think when you take into account how similar the characters Loki and Ezra truly are. The title is by Tracy Lawrence.

Throughout his immense lifetime, he’d managed to amass what many have called a _varied_ brood of ‘children’, a few of whom he’d even had the luxury of giving birth to himself, and he would be the first one to admit that he wasn’t exactly ‘Father of the Year’ material. However, just because he wasn’t the model of what an ideal parent should be didn’t mean that he was as callous a bastard as his own sire had been. No, each and every one of his offspring held a special place in the tangled mess of fire and ice that made up his somewhat-darkened heart, and he cared for them all in his own unique way.

He had been dubbed with the title ‘The Mother of Monsters’, a snide nickname bestowed upon him by his enemies after the births of his first four children, and for all of his craftiness and feigned indifference that damned name still seemed to prick him every time it was thrown his way. It wouldn’t have been such a cross to bear if the appellation had simply stung like all of the other insults that those who opposed him constantly hurled his way, but this one…this one lodged in the soft skin just below his ribcage where it would remain for a small eternity, poking and prodding until his carefully erected composure splintered. He would be left to spend countless hours unleashing his rage on any object that he could lay his hands on after the mentioning of his cursed title, taking an inordinate amount of pleasure in the physical violence that had been a staple of his people before finally collapsing into a boneless heap.

“It isn’t fair that you should judge my offspring to be ‘monsters’ simply because they are _different_!” he would argue, verbally berating anyone who would dare insult one of his children. Just because Sleipnir, Fenrir, and Jörmungandr had the appearances of animals didn’t mean that they should be treated as such. By the Norns, they were his children! Hela at least had the good fortune to be blessed with the body of a girl, albeit a half-dead one, but even she was not exempt from ridicule. He fought for them as best he could, but the people were right when they claimed that he wasn’t fit to be the father of anything, for he was first and foremost the Trickster. Delivering up his first-born so that Sleipnir could be used as a common steed for the great Odin had nearly been the death of him, for he still had a heart that could be broken, but in the end he knew that he could at least trust the All-father to look after his son and treat him well. The same could not be said for his other three offspring.

His three children who were the supposed bringers of Ragnarök were soon taken from his care and split up amongst the realms with Hela being sent away to become the future ruler of the land of the dead and Jörmungandr getting cast into the great sea of Midgard. After he had grown too large and dangerous for captivity, Fenrir escaped to begin siring his own offspring, and afterwards Odin all but forbade him from spawning any more ‘seeds of destruction’. At that point in time, he honestly hadn’t intended to have any more children either, fearing that they would also be taken away from him eventually, but once again the Fates decided to have a laugh at his expense.

Much like the encounter that resulted in Sleipnir’s birth, a night spent with the lady Sigyn gave him his son Nari, but instead of it being the curse that he’d been expecting he was pleasantly surprised when the child was born without any abnormalities. Despite Odin’s previous declaration about not reproducing, his adoptive father could pose no objections to the seemingly ‘normal’ baby boy so Nari was spared a fate similar to that of his older siblings. Even though he had been allowed to ‘keep’ his new child, something inside of him was still not quite right; he didn’t feel _satisfied_. That was when he had Váli. He never revealed the identity of his newest son’s father, but given the baby’s blue eyes and toe-headed mop he didn’t think the truth could be _that_ hard to figure out. As luck would have it, he’d been wrong, and his and Thor’s little secret remained that way forever. However, that empty feeling residing firmly in his chest didn’t go away, and it wasn’t until he saw Váli and Thor interacting one day that he realized just what that emptiness signified.

He’d been blessed with a total of six children, and yet…he couldn’t really see himself in any of them. What he longed for was a child with whom he could share the same mirror-image type of relationship that Váli had with Thor; he wanted a child after his own heart. That was what prompted him to take a brief sojourn to Midgard, where the beings were fascinating and the chances of finding a mate with similar proclivities as himself were favorable. The Midgardians may not have been as far along in their development as the other realms, but he found that certain areas had an unusual sort of charm, the bustling cities and crowded gambling halls providing him with both immense entertainment and potential prospects. In fact, it was during his stay in a city called New Orleans that he finally met his match, a woman with a tongue of quicksilver and an aura of confidence who he watched best every man at one of the gaming tables during one of his many wanderings of the town’s immense collection of casinos.

She was young for a Midgardian, perhaps just past the age of maturity, but she gave off the impression of someone who had been around for a lifetime and knew how to navigate the rough and murky waters of life without the aid of another. She was a fellow survivor just like him, and _that_ more than anything was why he chose her, her razor-sharp wit and clever mind just happened to be excellent bonuses. It had taken several drinks of something called ‘brandy’ and almost every bit of charm he possessed before she finally revealed her true name (Maude), and despite his resolution to not form any lasting attachments while on Midgard he couldn’t bring himself to leave even though his mission had been accomplished on their first night together.

One day turned into two and two turned into fourteen, and before he knew it he was welcoming a new son into the world. The little green-eyed baby was all that he could’ve asked for and then some, and for one glorious moment he was completely content with his life. Just like it had so many times before, Fate came back to kick him in the gut by reminding him that he had to return home to the family he had left behind, and all of his newfound joy abruptly evaporated. Leaving his newborn son just about ripped apart what remained of his tattered soul, but as he kissed the child’s brow one last time he made a promise to always keep an eye on him even if it meant more stays on Midgard like this one. He was a master shape shifter after all; he could come and go as he pleased without fear of having someone here on earth recognizing him. The _true_ problem would be keeping his child’s identity a secret from those who might wish to do the boy harm, namely his enemies back home.

As he gazed down at the slumbering form in his arms, he knew with absolute certainty that losing this child as he’d lost his others would be the end of him, for this tiny creature who bore _his_ eyes and _his_ mischievous smile was the true child of his heart, and it was for that reason that he vowed to never let news of his son’s existence reach the other realms. He allowed his thumb to caress a round, little cheek a few more times before he carefully placed the baby back in his wooden crib, drinking in his fill of his sleeping son before he was forced to leave. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, but no matter how hard he tried to will his body to leave he found that he couldn’t move. It was as if an invisible tie was binding him there, refusing to let him go until it was time.

“But it _is_ time!” his mind screamed, berating him for tarrying so long. It was as he was unclenching his left hand from the wooden railing that he caught sight of the gold glinting off of his ring finger, and in that moment an idea slammed into him with the force of Thor’s mighty Mjöllnir, forcing him to act without a second thought. He tugged the ruby ring that he’d created for himself (one of his few acts of magic during his entire trip) off of his finger and tucked it next to his sleeping son’s head, giving the tiny forehead one last caress before pulling back. A small, sad smile made its way onto his face without his knowledge as he finally turned and took his leave, satisfied that _now_ his child would have something to remember him by, which was more than what his own sire had left him.

And when Loki Laufeyson returned to the realm of Asgard, he did so without knowing that he’d left more of himself behind than what he had perhaps intended, bestowing his youngest child with a portion of the same magic that ran deep in his own veins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Revised on 1/29/12* It it well-known that Loki had more children than just the four 'monster' children and the two little boys. What if one of those 'hidden' children was a certain green-eyed gambler who not only inherited his father's knack for mischief, but also a latent form of Loki's magic? It would certainly explain a few things, such as Ezra's uncanny ability to avoid getting himself killed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those knowledgeable of Mag7, the events of Serpents and Obsession have been reversed (as per production order) so that the story would flow better.

Judge said boy you're gonna hurt yourself  
You'd a long been dead if you were anybody else  
Cause if the good die young if the good die young  
Oh there ain't a sentence gonna hold you son  
Cause you're gonna live forever if the good die young  
~Tracy Lawrence

Ever since he could remember, his mother had always tried to convince him that he was special and that he had a ‘gift’ he needed to share with the rest of the world. Actually, her exact words had been, “Darlin, you have a God-given talent, and I don’t intend to see you waste it,” but that was neither here nor there. The fact remained that by the time he was old enough to understand just what it was that his mother intended to do with said talent, it was too late for him to escape, for by then he’d already been bred into a way of life that was sure to either get him killed or make him rich. For years, he’d always suspected that he would run afoul of the former, but after many a close call during his youth he began to discover that his ‘gift’ included much more than just an aptitude for cards. Whether it was because he’d been born under a bad sign or his mother had made a deal that he was unaware of, it turned out that he, Ezra P. Standish, had the Devil’s own luck when it came to near-death experiences.

This new discovery turned out to pay huge dividends for him whenever he came across a bitter loser in a poker game or ran afoul of a con gone wrong, and the older he got the more he began to appreciate his mother’s teachings of self-preservation in a new light. He reasoned that if the good died young, then he would be around for a good long while with his less than upstanding way of life and uncanny ability to avoid being shot, and the thought of changing his ways never even crossed his mind. It wasn’t until Fate sent six certain men his way that events in his life began to take on an even stranger feel, if such a thing were even possible. His supernatural-like lucky streak began to hit snags, and for the first time that he could ever recall he began to wage an internal war against all that he had been brought up to be.

Despite the numerous drawbacks that came with taking up residence in a town like Four Corners, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to leave, having grown fond of the newfound camaraderie he’d developed with his fellow peacekeepers and the smidgen of respect he’d received from the townspeople for his law-keeping efforts. If pressed, he would also admit that one of the main reasons why he continued to remain in the dusty, backwater of a town was because of the time he got to spend with some of the local children. It seemed that along with the ruby ring that constantly adorned his left ring finger, his love for little ones had also been passed down to him from his father, for he’d never seen Maude interact with a child unless it was to serve a particular end. However, a gambler could only survive in such a place for so long before the well would eventually run dry, and the dollar a day that he and the others were paid to keep the peace wouldn’t even cover the cost of the bullets that would be used in the line of duty.

And so the internal struggle about whether to stay or flee raged on day after day, half of his brain rebuking him for remaining in such an unseemly locale while the other reveled in the joy he’d discovered in his new home. The voice in his head demanding that he leave unsurprisingly sounded like Maude, for she’d made her thoughts on his remaining in Four Corners quite clear when she’d passed through, but the quiet whisperings that reminded him of how good he currently had it remained nameless. He’d like to think that it was the voice of his father encouraging him to stay put, because every once in a while the murmurings took on a more intimate feel like that of someone who truly cared for his wellbeing but he supposed that such a thing was just wishful thinking. He’d never known his father, so for all intents and purposes the man could’ve been as cold and calculating as his mother tended to be.

The days bled away to weeks and the weeks into months, and before he knew it a whole year had gone by. During that time, he’d seen his mysterious lucky streak put to the test with gunfight after gunfight, his worst injury still being the dislocated shoulder he’d suffered during the battle he and his compatriots had fought just after they’d initially met one another. After such an extended period of time of not having to constantly look over his shoulder, he’d finally begun to let go of the idea of moving on, even going so far as attempting to establish a business in town; however, it seemed that the ‘man upstairs’ had different plans for Ezra P. Standish.

Things began to change, or more specifically the relationship between him and his companions began to change. It wasn’t one specific event per se, more like a collection of ‘little things’ that sent fractures throughout the bond he shared with the others, and for the first time in a seemingly long time he found himself with the desire to abandon ship. The main problem he kept running into when contemplating that course of action was that he would in turn be labeled a coward if he chose to flee, and Ezra P. Standish may have been a great many things but a true _coward_ was not one of them. Just because he chose to implement shrewdness and knew when to cut his losses didn’t mean he ran at the first sign of difficulty, but given his actions during the fight at the Seminole village back when he had first met the others he doubted that anyone would believe him. Nevertheless, he was determined to stick things out a little while longer, to spite those who still questioned his every move if for nothing else.

After he’d decided to remain in town for the time being, he found himself taking more chances than he had perhaps taken in the past, figuring the worst that could happen was that his luck would finally run out. The first time that he’d thought the Devil had finally come a-calling was during a ‘routine’ gunfight of all things, a lucky shot catching him square in the chest at just the right moment. The pain itself wasn’t quite as bad as he’d been expecting, but he supposed that shock and adrenaline may have had something to do with that. The force of the shot had ended up knocking him clean on his ass, a situation that normally would have had him chuckling if he’d had the breath to do so, but since he was finding it hard enough to give voice to his surprise he couldn’t see the sense in wasting precious air on a mirthless laugh.

He’d thought that he was dead for sure that time…that he’d rolled the dice and finally come up snake eyes. To have a bullet get deflected from his most vital of organs by a simple, diamond broach was a miracle according to Josiah, but it wasn’t his welfare that he’d been concerned about after he’d heard the other man’s words.

“What sort of man leaps out into a gunfight in order to look for a stupid stone?”

That had been Josiah’s question as soon as they’d gotten back to town, the big man taking him aside so that they couldn’t be overheard by any of the others. He’d given the man a blithe reply of, “One whose entire life was probably worth less than said stone,” and walked away, a bitter smile tainting his lips. It was a half-truth, but he figured that it would go over better than, “One who for some reason can’t be killed.”

When the Devil decided to pay him a second visit a few months later it was with the biggest of ironies, getting gunned down whilst trying to do the ‘right’ thing in an attempt to make some sort of amends. He would’ve laughed if he’d had the ability, but the pain that had begun to sweep across his midsection made even the smallest movement sheer agony. The last thought that reverberated in his head as the sounds of screaming began to fade was that he’d been right; the good _did_ die young. If he’d have just continued on with his plan to abscond from the town with the stolen blood money, he would’ve been just fine.

Nathan had called his survival ‘lucky’, and while he’d laughed along with everyone else afterwards a part of him had begun to grow cold inside. In the past, he’d always managed to avoid the bullets, but this time…this time that assassin had had him dead to rights. Otherworldly lucky streak or not, he found it incredibly doubtful that a stack of bills placed in just the right pocket could’ve staved off a bullet that had been fired at point-blank range, but then again he supposed that maybe his surviving was some sort of punishment from God. He’d tried taking the easy way out (as was his nature), and now the Fates were forcing him to live with his actions because obviously Ezra P. Standish wasn’t good enough to die a seeming ‘hero’s death’.

His quest for answers regarding his destiny ultimately came to an end two days later when he discovered a small package waiting for him in his room with a note tucked underneath the string that bound the paper wrapping together. The letter was addressed ‘To My Dearest Son’, and the florid scrawl that was so similar to his own that it had him doing a double-take informed him that the answers he sought lied with the box’s contents, which ended up being a gold-stained apple. After eyeing the oddly colored fruit for countless minutes in hopes that it would somehow ‘do’ something, he decided to throw caution to the wind and try the most obvious solution to solving this new riddle; he closed his eyes and took a hefty bite. When he cracked them back open again, he noticed that his ring was sporting little rune symbols and an emerald gleam, and his head felt as if someone had just filled it with warm lead. His dimpled grin, which he now knew to be a mirror- image of his father’s, had never been so wide.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Revised on 1/29/12* It it well-known that Loki had more children than just the four 'monster' children and the two little boys. What if one of those 'hidden' children was a certain green-eyed gambler who not only inherited his father's knack for mischief, but also a latent form of Loki's magic? It would certainly explain a few things, such as Ezra's uncanny ability to avoid getting himself killed.

He hadn’t meant for things to turn out the way they had. When he’d left his son behind on Midgard all those years ago he had had every intention of returning to watch his little boy grow up, but as the Norns would have it he’d been forced to watch from afar, reduced to the snippets he could gleam through his scrying glass. He horded those small moments to an even greater degree than a dragon with treasure if such a thing were possible, and at night he would replay them over and over in his head, silent tears falling at the twisted irony that he’d created. In his quest for a child after his own heart he’d ended up crafting a literal _mirror- image_ of himself right down to the unfair childhood.

There wasn’t much that he could do in the way of changing his son’s fate, for events in Asgard had prevented him from leaving for any length of time, but that didn’t stop him from keeping an ever watchful eye out. Truth be told, his not being involved in his son’s rearing was probably for the best, because if he _had_ in fact had a hand in the boy’s development then Ezra would have probably turned out more like him than was necessarily healthy. As it was, the boy had ended up inheriting many of his mannerisms and characteristics along with some of the less than desirable emotional baggage that came with a shoddy upbringing; the last thing his son needed was a crater-sized chip on his shoulder.

For years, he would watch as his youngest child struggled through life by the use of shrewdness and charm and sometimes by sheer will alone, but it wasn’t until Ezra’s latent magic began to manifest itself that he _truly_ considered stepping in and let everyone else be damned. The boy had proven to be more than capable of taking care of himself, a fact that Loki found to be bittersweet, but the handling of _any_ form of magic required proper preparation, preparation that when withheld could result in disaster. As pleased as he was to see that his special child had inherited an integral part of him, he prayed that it would remain latent or at the very least not have _too_ drastic of an impact on Ezra’s life.

By the time his son reached his age of maturity, the magic had already begun to take its toll, and Loki knew that if he didn’t intervene soon then he would in turn lose that which he had sought so hard to acquire. For instead of acting like the gift that it was, Ezra’s magic was beginning to morph into a curse that would turn his son into a miserable wretch for the rest of his days. Loki refused to let such a fate befall his beloved child, especially when he had the power to prevent it from happening.

He bided his time and waited for the opportune moment to initiate his plan, and when his son looked about done for that’s when Loki struck, slipping between the realms to leave the lad a note along with an apple he’d purloined from Idunn. He supposed that there were less risky ways of preventing his son from following in his exact footsteps, but none of them seemed to sit well with him.

When Thor came upon him watching Ezra’s discovery by way of his scrying glass, his brother asked him why he would give a seemingly unimportant Midgardian such a treasure as one of Idunn’s apples, his son’s subsequent reaction to the spell that he’d cast on the apple puzzling Thor greatly.

Loki could only smile fondly at the image in his scrying glass and whisper, “Because he’s my son, and he deserves to know the truth about his heritage.” He traced over the face in the mirror with a careful fingertip and prayed that Ezra would be able to take the knowledge and extended life that Loki had given him and simply _enjoy_ himself in a way that Loki had never gotten to.

Thor must have picked up on what he was feeling because he chose not to question Loki further; he simply came up and wrapped an arm around his shoulders in silent support. They’d already managed to keep a secret about one of Loki’s children, why not tack on one more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idunn's golden apples were what the gods used to extend their lifespans; to give one to a lowly mortal was a big deal.


End file.
